


Convince Me

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Facial Hair, M/M, Other, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur develops a worrying condition. Merlin is concerned; Gwaine is amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convince Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/80326.html) for Facial Hair Appreciation Week. (15 November 2011)

Merlin’s been fussing about Arthur’s beard for a week—not that Gwaine would really call it a beard, not yet; it’s mostly only excusable because they’ve just come out of a week on patrol—and it’s good fun to watch him harp about it, which is what Gwaine’s been doing all evening. Merlin gathers and discards bowls of water and towels and old tunics, bickering with Arthur about whether Arthur should shave and whether Merlin should be the one allowed to do it, and Gwaine finds the entire scene _highly_ diverting.

He’s warm from the fire and the wine Arthur had poured earlier; he’s delightfully clean after soaking away the accumulated grime from a week spent in the muddy woods, and it’s easy to laugh when Arthur pulls an aggrieved face and catches Merlin’s wrist, ordering him to be quiet.

“Merlin’s never quiet,” Gwaine points out. “Even when he’s not speaking, he’s _thinking_ about speaking.”

Arthur looks at him, thoughtful, and then at Merlin, and pulls Merlin into his lap so that Merlin’s straddling him, all dangerously flailing elbows and knees as he protests loudly. Arthur frowns at Merlin, interrupting the latest tirade. “You just haven’t had a chance to properly appreciate the _usefulness_ of a beard yet.” 

The hot-eyed glance he flickers at Gwaine isn’t a surprise, though they haven’t talked about this, not directly. It can’t be a real surprise, not when Gwaine’s caught Arthur watching him more than once with a level, speculative sort of gaze when no one else is looking. Not when he’s heard Merlin muffle his name into a bedroll or by the river while he washes; not when they’ve all heard each other at night by now and slid their own hands down in turn. Gwaine thinks about it for a moment while Merlin sputters, tapping a finger on his thigh, and when he sees that Arthur is still watching him over Merlin’s shoulder he licks his lips in answer, smoothing a hand over his rough stubble as he sprawls lower in his own chair, spreading his legs wide. There’s a hint of a flush in Arthur’s cheeks when he draws a hand slow up Merlin’s back; his eyes don’t leave Gwaine’s.

Merlin hasn’t caught on, hadn’t seen the looks passing between them. He squirms, obviously uncomfortable where he’s half-kneeling in Arthur’s lap. “I’ve had plenty of time to _appreciate_ it,” he argues while Arthur helps rearrange his limbs until he’s sitting properly astride, his chest close to Arthur’s, his legs dangling on either side of the chair. “It looks terrible. It looked terrible in the beginning and it looks terrible now.”

Gwaine slides easily to his feet, stretching, feeling every inch of his skin settle into contented anticipation. He looks at Arthur, but Arthur is absorbed in staring at Merlin’s mouth as Merlin blunders merrily on, so Gwaine steps up close to Merlin’s back, his feet just touching Arthur’s, and rests his hands on Merlin’s shoulders.

“What—?” Merlin interrupts himself as he twists around to squint up at Gwaine. He can’t turn far: Arthur’s hands are steady and possessive on his hips. “What do you want?” Bless, he still doesn’t understand, Gwaine thinks fondly. Perhaps it’s the wine they’ve been sharing, or perhaps Merlin is really just that dense.

“I think Arthur’s on to something,” Gwaine says, pressing closer and rubbing his thumbs in small circles over the rough fabric of Merlin’s shirt. “You should give the beard another chance.”

“No,” Merlin grumbles, turning back around. “No, I won’t; don’t you start, too, you’ll only make him worse—oh.” Gwaine can see that Arthur’s playing with the hem of Merlin’s shirt, pushing his fingers underneath to dance them along Merlin’s bare belly. “Oh _no_.”

“Oh yes,” Arthur says, mostly teasing, but that hot dark edge hasn’t gone away, lurks in the corners of his smile. Gwaine strokes his hands down over Merlin’s chest to pull Merlin’s shirt up a few inches so Arthur can reach more skin. The air is warm—it’s spring, and there’s a fire against the damp not three paces from them—but Merlin shivers.

“This is a bad idea,” Merlin says, but he tilts his head to the side when Gwaine bends to kiss his neck.

“Shut up,” Arthur tells him, sounding almost fond. “It’s a brilliant idea.” Gwaine rubs his cheek along the tendon standing out under Merlin’s skin in agreement, to further illustrate the point, and Merlin sucks in a breath, throwing his hands out to steady himself on Arthur’s chest.

“Don’t you trust us?” Gwaine asks in his most falsely innocent voice, standing upright once more, letting his hand linger over the rising redness in Merlin’s skin where he’d pressed his stubble. “Your prince and his most trusted knight—” Arthur snorts at that, but Gwaine only grins and continues, “—I’m appalled you could ever think we didn’t have your best interests at heart.”

Merlin huffs a laugh. “Because you’re always looking out for me, right. I might have believed that _before_ you made it a habit to make me miserable.” He doesn’t resist, though, lifting his arms obediently when Arthur tugs his shirt up and off, tossing it to the floor.

“I’m going to have to clean that,” Merlin points out, shifting.

“You’ll have to clean a lot more than that if you keep talking,” Arthur says, exasperated, and silences him with a kiss.

Gwaine watches. It’s a practiced kiss, none of the shy reticence of a first time, and that answers _that_ question for him; he’ll collect from the others later. He feels himself grow harder, presses his swelling cock into Merlin’s back, sliding it gently back and forth to build up the tingling pressure.

“No,” Merlin says finally, breathless from the kiss and hidden laughter. “I’ve decided. I don’t like it at all.” 

Arthur chuckles, deep and filthy. “Liar.”

“Truth!” Merlin protests, but Arthur is kissing him again, pushing him off and up and rising from the chair after him, and from there it’s only a pace or two to reach the bed.

Gwaine follows as Arthur presses Merlin down, and sits by Merlin’s head; close enough that he can touch without reaching, far enough back that he can fully appreciate the view. Merlin grumbles when Arthur pulls away, both their mouths wet from kissing; Merlin’s chin turning pink already from the friction of Arthur’s beard, and Gwaine chuckles, leaning in to lick along the curving shell of Merlin’s ear.

“Impatient?”

Merlin glares. Arthur smacks his thigh lightly and says, imperious, “Come on, Merlin; your clothes won’t remove themselves, you know.”

Merlin glares harder, and Gwaine laughs, reaching down to for the hem of Merlin’s shirt to tug it up and off, leaving it tangled around Merlin’s elbows and eyes almost as an afterthought while he leans further in, pressing a line of sucking kisses down Merlin’s chest to his belly. Merlin squirms, muscles fluttering beneath his thin skin as he tries to wiggle away, but Arthur’s caught onto the idea now. He keeps Merlin in place while he unpicks Merlin’s laces before stripping Merlin to the knees. Merlin’s cock bobs free, still only half hard but filling nicely, and Gwaine makes an appreciative noise, shifting for a better look.

He wonders if Arthur will use his mouth, and his own cock jerks. He’s still bent low over Merlin’s belly, nearly close enough to lick the very tip of Merlin’s dick himself, but he thinks about Arthur’s red lips closing over the fat head of it, how his cheeks would hollow, his mouth stretch wide to take Merlin in. Maybe Arthur would take Merlin in all the way, touch his lips to the dark curls of Merlin’s groin, Merlin’s cock hot and thick and halfway down his throat...

Gwaine feels a groan rumbling low and quiet in his chest, and Arthur smirks at him, as if he can read Gwaine’s thoughts from his face, and bends to lip at Merlin’s inner thigh, rubbing his cheek hard along the spot after. 

Merlin curses, and thrashes, and curses again. He’s caught in his clothes still; Arthur has him pinned at the knees and hips, and Gwaine is leant over above his head, keeping him from sitting upright. Arthur scrapes his beard over Merlin’s skin again, closer this time, working his way higher up Merlin’s inner thigh, and Merlin makes a strangled noise.

“Arthur—”

He doesn’t finish, biting off the words as Gwaine thoughtfully drags his chin up the centre of Merlin’s chest, admiring the way Merlin’s skin flushes quickly in his wake. Merlin’s somehow wormed his head free of the shirt, though his arms are still thoroughly tangled, and Gwaine scratches his jaw carefully up Merlin’s throat before dropping kisses over Merlin’s face, flicking his tongue over the seam of Merlin’s lips until he can sink into the wet heat of Merlin’s mouth. The angle isn’t ideal, but Merlin is eager and selfish with it, tilting his chin and pleading wordlessly, whining softly every time Arthur shifts between his legs and finds some new spot to torture.

Gwaine’s breath is coming faster by the time he feels Arthur’s hand in his hair, tugging him up.

“You have a filthy mouth,” Arthur growls. Gwaine grins. Merlin’s lips are swollen from his attentions, his chin and cheeks and jaw rubbed raw and tender. Gwaine _does_ have a filthy mouth; he’s proud of it, and he takes the opportunity to show Arthur just how filthy it is. Merlin makes broken sounds beneath them as they kiss, and Gwaine’s inclined to agree; the scrape of Arthur’s stubble against his own is odd, but Gwaine thinks he could enjoy it. He _is_ enjoying it. Merlin had been greedy, shamelessly demanding, but Arthur comes in true conqueror’s form, fighting for control until Gwaine gives it to him, letting Arthur wind a hand in his hair and pull. Arthur tugs sharply, unrelenting until he has Gwaine exactly where he wants and can plunder Gwaine’s mouth at will, stripping Gwaine down to pure sensation with lush, leisurely kisses which steal the breath from his lungs.

“Filthy,” Arthur says at last, approving as he pulls away. He sits back slowly, skimming his fingers down Merlin’s body until his hands bracket Merlin’s hips. Merlin’s cock has made a mess while Gwaine was occupied with Arthur’s mouth, smearing liquid in a broken line across his belly. “Show me more,” Arthur says, raising his eyebrows in challenge, and Merlin bucks up into his hands.

“Fuck,” Merlin says, high and strained. “Fuck, yes, Gwaine, please.”

“Gladly,” says Gwaine, feeling his own dick twitch and press against the confinement of his trousers, because if Merlin is already falling apart from _this_ , what will he look like when Gwaine’s lips are wrapped around that pretty cock?

Gwaine shuffles his knees up, bracketing Merlin’s head, and lets Arthur guide him down until Merlin’s cock bumps against his lips. He laps at it with delicate flicks of his tongue, and Arthur releases him to hold Merlin down instead while Merlin whimpers and clutches at Gwaine’s legs—he must have finally freed his arms. Gwaine enjoys the teasing, but as delicious as Merlin’s tormented little gasps are his mouth is watering: he wants to rub his tongue along the length of Merlin’s cock, feel it in the back of his throat. He wants to see how far he can take it; how far he can push Merlin—and Arthur through him—until someone screams or comes.

He slides down easy, bringing a hand in to circle his fingers around the base of Merlin’s dick, holding it steady. Merlin keens as Gwaine pulls back and suckles the head—gods, Merlin has a beautiful cock, he thinks, fat and burning hot and leaking everywhere—and even Arthur makes a punched noise when Gwaine stretches his lips around Merlin’s dick and works it steadily, driving Merlin to ever more desperate noises whenever he pulls up.

His world has narrowed, focused on Merlin and the dangerous edge he knows must be creeping closer, but that doesn’t mean he misses Arthur pushing Merlin’s legs wider, or Merlin’s sudden gasp when Arthur rasps his cheek along the side of Merlin’s knee, sliding one hand down and out of Gwaine’s sight.

Gwaine pulls off to get a better look, Merlin’s head still cradled between his legs as he uses the pads of his fingers to toy with Merlin’s cock. Merlin’s thighs are red, and Gwaine imagines they must sting after so much rough attention, but Merlin doesn’t seem to care, opening his mouth to gasp as he arches into Arthur’s touch, into Arthur’s slick hands as Arthur slips a finger into him. Gwaine had thought he’d enjoy this sight, but he’d underestimated: Merlin, driven near to desperation, is gorgeous.

Arthur makes a clever little motion with his wrist, and Merlin arches again, babbling. “Please,” he gasps, eyes blown wide and dark, and Gwaine catches his hands when they flail out, pressing them to his own knees to keep them out of the way. “Please; fuck, I need—fuck me, I need you to fuck me.”

“Listen to you,” Gwaine says, dizzy, when Merlin sucks in a gasp, his muscles straining as Arthur twists another finger in. “We’ve barely given you anything, and look how wrecked you are.” Merlin moans. “I wager you wouldn’t last a minute if Arthur took you now, pounded into you the way you want. You’d love it, wouldn’t you? You’d love it if Arthur wasn’t so careful, if he let you go wild, slam yourself down again and again until you came...but then it would be over too quickly, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Merlin gasps. He’s sweaty and red-faced, wrecked; his fingers keep twitching in Gwaine’s hands. “I’d—I’d make it good, so good.”

“Loud, too,” Gwaine muses, and tucks two of his fingers into Merlin’s mouth. Arthur is watching them intently from between Merlin’s legs, silent as he works three fingers deep into Merlin, and that drives Gwaine on. “Perhaps you’ll need a gag; you’ll wake all of Camelot like this. Or would you like that? Does it get you off, knowing everyone can hear how well you’re being fucked, how good it makes you feel?”

Merlin curls his tongue around Gwaine’s fingers and huffs panting breaths through his nose, and Gwaine reaches for his own cock, freeing it from his trousers as he thinks about feeding it to Merlin, fucking Merlin’s sinful mouth while Arthur fucks his arse. He palms his dick, pulling his fingers out from between Merlin’s lips and using them to slick it before pushing them back into Merlin’s mouth, Merlin stretching easily open to accommodate them, and yeah, he thinks; Merlin would look fucking beautiful with a cock in his mouth.

Arthur’s ripping his own trousers off, pulling Merlin’s down the rest of the way as well before lining up and pushing his cock into Merlin’s arse, and Merlin moans around Gwaine’s fingers, rolling his hips to meet Arthur’s thrusts.

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, pulling at his cock with his free hand and staring, mesmerised. “Yeah, that feels good, doesn’t it, Merlin? Feel that, Arthur in you, splitting you apart on his dick, fucking you just like you asked him to.”

“Gwaine,” Arthur says, strained. “Stop talking and put your cock in his mouth already.” He’s staring at where Gwaine’s fingers are sunk between Merlin’s lips, and normally Gwaine isn’t much for following orders, but in this case he can make an exception.

Rearranging is a little awkward at first. Arthur pushes Merlin’s legs wide and tries to keep out of Gwaine’s way as Gwaine positions himself over Merlin, but their heads bang together twice before Gwaine is pushing in, one hand holding his dick and the other braced on Arthur’s shoulder. His legs are protesting the strain already, and at this angle Merlin can only really get his lips around the head, but _Merlin is sucking his cock_ , and Gwaine would take a lot more discomfort than this to enjoy the privilege. He rocks forward gently, and Merlin sucks and gasps and slides his tongue a little distractedly over the crown—Arthur’s still fucking into him with steady thrusts; thrusts that Gwaine can feel run through Merlin, and he changes his own pace to match, risking his balance to lean further in and kiss Arthur again, hard, sinking into this new form of battle as they take Merlin at both ends.

When Merlin’s mouth goes slack, letting Gwaine’s cock spring free, Gwaine doesn’t bother with scolding. He bends as Arthur hitches Merlin’s hips up for a better angle, and licks Merlin’s own cock, one swirl of his tongue around the head of it—and Merlin claws at the sheets, incoherent, as he falls abruptly into his release, coming over Gwaine’s face and his own belly as Gwaine pulls away.

Arthur drops Merlin’s legs, grabbing Gwaine by the back of the neck to pull him in, almost vicious as he licks Merlin’s seed from Gwaine’s lips, scavenges the insides of Gwaine’s mouth for the taste. “Your turn,” he says, voice rough, when he finally pulls away. “Unless you think you can beat me.”

“I know it,” Gwaine says, falling into the familiar banter, and Arthur reaches for the oil with a smirk, slicking Gwaine’s cock. It feels filthier than anything they’ve done so far—Merlin naked beneath them and Arthur half-dressed, his shirtlaces slowly unraveling, while Gwaine’s shirt is still on and his trousers are still around his knees. He doesn’t think he’s been this clothed for sex in years, possibly ever, but it doesn’t matter. Arthur’s hand is hot and tight around his dick, and he finishes each stroke with a cruel little twist that has Gwaine panting into his shoulder too quickly. He concentrates hard on holding off the slide into mindless pleasure, on beating Arthur, but his hips are pushing forward without his control. 

Merlin’s still under him too, his own come cooling on his stomach as Arthur fucks him, and it’s Merlin who’s the end of it. Merlin, who says, in a voice wrecked from pleasure: “Gwaine, please—” and moans long and low when Gwaine shudders into orgasm, his come mixing with Merlin’s own on Merlin’s skin, Arthur jerking every drop from his dick until Gwaine curls his fingers hard into Arthur’s arm and pulls away, too sensitive.

He’s lost, but Gwaine takes some comfort from the fact that Arthur finishes just as he’s slumping back onto the bed, shoving his hips fast and hard into Merlin before freezing. 

Merlin grumbles at them until Arthur scrubs him clean, and then somehow—Gwaine suspects nefarious and not-quite-earthly means—manoeuvres them into lying next to him, all three of them too sated to think much about moving elsewhere.

“So,” Gwaine says, when it becomes clear that Arthur’s idea of pillow talk is snoring. “Changed your mind?”

Merlin blinks at him, confused for a moment, and then grins. “No,” he says, smug. “Definitely not. Beards are a terrible idea. I think we should shave Arthur’s while he sleeps.”

“What?” Arthur demands, rolling over to glare at them. “If we’re shaving anyone, it’ll be Gwaine.”

“Him, too,” Merlin assures Arthur, still smiling.

“Hmm,” Gwaine says, thinking about Arthur’s come, still probably leaking out of Merlin onto the bedclothes. He’d like to press close to Merlin’s arse, lick out every trace of Arthur until they’re all ready to go again—but it’s late, and sleep is threatening to close over him before he gets his mouth anywhere near Merlin’s arse. And morning sex, he thinks, has its perks. “Might I suggest a rematch? Best two out of three?”

From the way Merlin’s grin grows even bigger at the suggestion, Gwaine suspects that might have been the plan all along.


End file.
